The game of a higher price
by Arianka
Summary: James Moriarty is dead, but he somehow appeared on every screen in England. Why? Some adventure story with lots of emotions and a bit of angst. It's a translation of my Polish story.
1. Chapter 1

Ok, so here it is. Some people asked me about a sequel to my story "Where no one looks". It may not striclty be a sequel, at least not just a Sherlolly story, but both stories are related (as well as my other story "You always count")

This story is set directly after His last vow, in the moment when Sherlock comes back to London. And again, it's a translation, but this time I'm going to translate it chapter by chapter and I will publish Polish and English versions in almost the same time.

What can I promise? Some action, lots of friendly/family feelings, and some angst... And some Sherlolly.

Again, if you see I wrote something wrong, please let me know, I will be glad to correct any mistakes, as it is a translation.

Enjoy!

* * *

**The game of a higher price**

He was coming home! Whoever was behind that hacking to all the television stations, whoever got that old video with James Moriarty, had just made Sherlock NOT fly on that suicide mission in Eastern Europe. Whatever was coming next, he would deal with it...

The detective got out from the black car and enthusiastically opened the green door leading to 221B Baker Street. He no longer had to hide his excitement from his brother. Sherlock hung his coat by the doors and grabbing his phone, he ran upstairs. Judging by the noise of the vacuum cleaner, Mrs. Hudson had finally gotten to clean his flat. Well, she would be startled... Sherlock ran inside with a wide grin, happy to surprise the old lady.

"Mrs. Hudson? Surp..." The words stuck in Sherlock's throat and the world turned upside down. Mrs. Hudson was laying naked on the carpet, and all Sherlock could see were bloody massages 'did you miss me?' written all over her body. Somewhere there the vacuum cleaner was howling. The noise was unbearable, the sight unforgettable.

He never, ever reacted badly at the sight of the corpse, but now he could barely stop his stomach from twisting violently, as he leaned over the old lady, checking if she was alive out of pure stubbornness. Somewhere in his foggy mind he thought that he should be grateful for her broken neck.

The vacuum cleaner howled. The noise drilled into his ears, driving him crazy. For a moment Sherlock had no idea what was going on, except the general feeling of the walls crushing around him and the spinning floor. He almost blacked out...

There was no time for sentiment. The detective rose on his feet, at the same time unplugging the vacuum cleaner and making it shut up. In his mind, he had one scenario going after another, and all of them were unpleasant. If someone got Mrs. Hudson, who was going to be next...

Sherlock grabbed his phone. One thing at a time, calm down, think...

"Mycroft? Baker Street, now," he barked, as soon as he heard his brother's voice. "Bring Watsons along. Now."

"Sherlock, what..." Sherlock didn't hear the rest of Mycroft's question, as he ended the conversation. He knew without doubt that his brother would come.

The next phone call was to the detective inspector. Lestrade answered at once, surprised that Sherlock called him instead of texting.

"I need police at Baker Street." Sherlock really tried to hide the fact that his voice was breaking. "I have a crime scene in here. It's your division."

Red button. Next call.

Silence.

Dial again.

Nothing. Voice mail.

Dial again.

"Molly!"

Nonononono... Sherlock was already running down the stairs, dialing her number again and again. With no result, Molly's mobile remained silent. The detective went outside and he faced the ice cold wind, but there was a taxi, so he just ran and got into it, instead of returning inside to grab his coat.

Dial again. Dial again. Dial again.

He called Molly twenty seven times before he got to the hospital. As soon as the taxi stopped by the entrance, Sherlock jumped out, shouting at the cabbie to wait for him. He didn't pay much attention to the driver's protests, or the fact that he didn't have his wallet and therefore he had no way to pay for the ride. It really wasn't important right now.

.

Sherlock had no idea how many people he almost ran into on his way to the morgue. Every time he tried to get into his mind palace, the realistic feeling of crushing walls was returning. Somewhere there he heard Mycroft's malicious voice, pointing out how destructive all his caring was, but Sherlock had bigger problems.

"Molly?" he called, entering the morgue. He looked around feverishly, but the room was empty, except a corpse on the table, under a plastic bag. "No..."

The detective removed the bag to uncover the body. Male, about sixty, stated Sherlock after first glance, but he couldn't relax. Whoever had killed Mrs. Hudson, they could have enough information to know about Molly, and, what was worse, they could be... creative. Therefore Sherlock followed the first thought that crossed his mind, and started removing the fridge drawers, one after another, every time scared to death that he would see Molly Hooper there, dead or alive. He was still too confused to think clearly ant try to deduce the motives and preferences of the killer.

Sherlock saw Molly a moment later. The pathologist came into the morgue and froze at the sight of the chaos, her eyes wide open in astonishment.

"For God's sake, what's going on in here?! Sher..." The woman stopped, as the detective made three long steps and closed her in a tight embrace.

"Molly..."

"Yeah, I'm glad to see you too, but you will break me," said the pathologist. "So they called you back, like I thought they would..."

Sherlock collected himself a bit and loosened his grip, so that he stopped crushing her ribs, but he didn't look like he was going to let go of her.

"Did you see? The video?" he murmured somewhere near her braid.

"Yes, I guess everybody saw that," replied Molly, more and more confused and worried by Sherlock's behavior. "But it cannot be him, I mean I saw him on this slab, lacking half of his brain," she reminded her friend. "Sherlock?"

"You didn't answer your phone. I thought they killed you too." Sherlock spat out and let her go. Only then Molly saw that he was wearing only his suit, and his hands had signs of what supposedly was a dried blood.

"Too?" she repeated numbly. "W-what do you mean?" For a moment the old, stuttering Molly was back, but this time for another reason.

"Mrs. Hudson. Right in the middle on the carpet in my living room. She's dead," explained Sherlock in a dead voice. "I thought that you were dead too."

"Oh my God..." This time it was Molly who embraced him, trying to comfort him and seeking for comfort. Suddenly she realized why Sherlock came here so frightened. Suddenly she was scared too. "Sherlock? Your mobile is ringing," she realized after a moment, feeling the phone buzzing in his pocket.

"What? Oh." The detective caught up and fished out his phone. "Yes?" he asked sharply.

"_Jesus Christ, Sherlock!" _greeted him an angry John. _"Answer your phone, would you! We're trying to catch you for the last quarter!"_

"John? Are you with Mycroft? At Baker Street?" asked Sherlock hurriedly.

"_Yes! And you know what we found here... And your coat was on the floor, your mobile not responding..."_ John was clearly mad. He shut silent for a moment, and then asked in completely different voice_. "Sherlock? Are you... Did someone..."_

"What? No, no!" reassured the detective, almost physically feeling what was going through his friend's head. John assumed that he had been kidnapped.

Molly, who stood close enough to hear both sides, suddenly grabbed Sherlock's mobile.

"John? We're at Bart's. Sherlock... came here for me" she explained awkwardly. "He's fine," she said, glancing worriedly at her friend.

"We're on our way," added Sherlock and took back his phone, as suddenly as Molly a moment earlier. "Come on," he said to the pathologist and grabbed her hand, ready to go.

"Sherlock, wait!" Molly stopped him. "Let me take my bag and jacket," she pointed out reasonably.

"Fine." Sherlock obediently turned back. He stood in the office door, nervously drumming his fingers, while Molly quickly collected her things and sorted the documents on her desk. But before she finished, she didn't resist. She came closer to Sherlock and immobilized his fingers.

"Go and wash your hands," she asked quietly. Sherlock nodded, still looking a bit confused, and left to the morgue, where was a big sink in a corner. Just like Molly asked, he kept rubbing, trying to get rid of the dried blood, until his hands reddened and got warmer. When the pathologist finally emerged from the office and closed the doors behind her, the detective turned off the water and dried his hands with a paper towel.

"Shell we go now?" he growled unpleasantly, trying to regain control of the situation. His fingers shook nervously again, so Molly grabbed his hand and nodded, still dumped in the face. Sherlock left the morgue without a word, dragging her behind. Only outside, when he saw the waiting taxi, he realized what he had forgotten about.

"Err... Molly? Do you have any cash?" he asked, embarrassed. "I forgot my wallet."

"Yes, I have."


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you for following and reviewing. Here's the second chapter, a bit longer this time.

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When they got to Baker Street, there were two police cars along with Greg's car, and the whole street was closed. Molly paid the cabbie and got out of the car, dragging Sherlock along, as she still kept his hand. Together, they went under a yellow tape without being stopped; the policemen knew Sherlock well enough.

The Watsons were waiting for them in the kitchen, both upset and a bit out of place, as no one needed them. Greg was working with his team and Mycroft was hanging on his mobile in the corridor.

"Oh, finally," signed John, when he saw them. Only when he glanced at Molly questioningly, she let go of Sherlock's hand, embarrassed.

As soon as she did that, Sherlock stormed into the living room, putting latex gloves he got out of nowhere. Molly closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, ready to join him.

"You don't have to do that," said John softly. "It's not too..."

"John, I am a pathologist," Molly reminded him, though she suspected at the moment she didn't exactly look or act professionally. "I will see her anyway, if not here, then at work. No difference."

That was one of these moments when Molly hated her job. Usually she would keep her distance, and remain an overly happy morgue worker. But it was hard to be professional when the dead person was someone you knew and liked. And right now she wasn't the only one who had this problem.

Sherlock was kneeling by Mrs. Hudson's body and examining the inscriptions on her tiny arms. Greg stood over him, waiting for any clues he might have had. Molly just stopped by, unsure whether her help was needed. She really hoped it wasn't.

"I'm afraid you will find my fingerprints as well in the analysis," muttered Sherlock, leaning so he was almost touching the bloody signs with his nose.

"What?" Lestrade was surprised at first, but he quickly composed himself. "Did you touch anything before you called me?" he asked sharply. The detective inspector at work. "Sherlock!"

"I was too busy checking for life signs to remember about gloves!" snapped Sherlock, rising his head and looking at the inspector with anger. "This body lays here for two, three hours," he started talking with his usual speed. Molly and Greg exchanged glances; Sherlock didn't say 'Mrs. Hudson'. "There were two murderers at least... I see two different handwritings, it wasn't made by one person..."

"Three." Mycroft corrected him suddenly.

Sherlock, distracted by his brother's comment, didn't say a word. He just closed his eyes, trying to focus.

"Three men." Mycroft went on. "They had a removal car, went in, did what they did, and left with some boxes. That's what my people got from cctv on the street."

"Ok, but who was that? Moriarty?" asked Greg. "And why?" His question must have been too pushing, because Sherlock exploded.

"I don't know!"

The inspector watched for a moment the kneeling detective, Molly standing beside him, and glanced at the unmoved Mycroft in the doors. Then he firmly caught Sherlock's arms and forced him to stand up.

"Ok, let's go."

"What do you think you're doing?" objected the younger Holmes, but Greg just pushed him towards the kitchen. Right now the inspector had not his consulting detective, but the victim's family on a crime scene. With every indications that he needed an orange blanket.

"Nothing," he answered calmly. "It's alright, Sherlock, we'll go back to that. We're in no hurry. Right now just go out of here, drink some tea and get warmer." The inspector noticed Sherlock's cold hands.

"What do you want, Lestrade?"

"He wants nothing but you to get a grip and have a break. Then you can work," stated John, momentarily catching what was going on. He took Sherlock to the kitchen, where Mary had already done huge amounts of tea. The doctor grabbed the nearest mug, put some sugar in it, and handed it to his friend. Sherlock had to accept it, if he didn't want to have this tea all over himself.

"Could you stop fussing?" snapped the detective, when John ostentatiously showed him a chair. Sherlock just stubbornly leaned against a cupboard. At least he removed the gloves and curled his cold fingers around the warm mug.

"Just breathe deeply, you stop thinking clearly," Mary pointed out logically.

"Oh, here you are," said Mycroft, entering the more and more polluted kitchen. The look he gave his brother was full of pity. "Sherlock, look at you. What did I tell you about not getting involved?" he asked patronizingly.

Bum! John's mug slammed against the table, tea splashing around. Sherlock's mug began shaking dangerously. The younger Holmes was white like a sheet, and he looked as if he wanted to step back, had he had enough space. Mary looked down at the table she was sitting by.

"Mycroft, I suggest you shut up," said John suspiciously calmly, after he saw Sherlock. "You're not helping."

"And apparently your presence influences, or rather influenced my brother's quick thinking," retorted Mycroft. "Caring brings only trouble, brother mine," he said to Sherlock. "Redbeard didn't teach you anything, did he?"

Mycroft said two words too many and the detective's white mug crashed on the floor. In the living room, Molly jumped from the floor, shocked by the words of the elder Holmes and the reaction of the younger.

"Mycroft, get out," ordered John. He stood behind Mary, so that he found himself between the brothers. "You're not helping, on the contrary."

Molly slipped inside and went directly to Sherlock, passing over a tea puddle on the floor. Mycroft's behavior had just gone above her levels of understanding. How could he say such things to Sherlock, when he obviously needed some comfort?

"John, do you really think that in the current situation with a national hacking, I would waste my time in here any longer?" asked Mycroft. "I have better things to do. Sherlock, I will see you in my office in two hours. Some people... required your presence," he reminded everyone, leaving no place for doubts. Sherlock might have not left the country, but it didn't mean he was free from obligations to his brother. Everyone knew perfectly well that only full cooperation with secret service protected him from regular trial and prison in the end.

"I'll be there," promised Sherlock, not looking at his brother.

"He'll be there if he's up to it," corrected John, making himself as clear as Mycroft did. In this company he was the doctor and he was going to use that, if necessary. Molly wouldn't be surprised at all if John sent Mycroft a perfectly legal sick leave.

"Your flats are being searched for any threat," replied Mycroft. "We'll check Baker Street as well, as soon as the police is done. Goodbye."

No longer having a mug in his hands, Sherlock crossed his arms tightly around his chest. He muted the voices around him, focusing on the image of his brother, frozen in his memories. He felt as if the image of Mycroft he had inside his head since he was a child had just stepped outside. And for a moment, Sherlock again was this little boy, naive enough to think that his brother was the smartest person. In front of everyone.

"Hey, Sherlock?" He heard John's anxious voice. "Are you alright?"

"What? Yes, yes, fine," Sherlock reassured him. He realized that Molly was not only standing next to him, but she also had her arm around him.

"Don't lie," protested the ladies simultaneously, surprising Sherlock yet again. He was still used to the fact that he could make John believe lots of things.

"I never thought I would say that, but your brother can be even more tactless than you," commented Greg, joining them. "What the hell was that?"

„Just the Mycroft I always knew," replied Sherlock quietly. He decided to look up and glanced at his friends. He seemed to want to say something, but he hesitated and shook his head, blinking rapidly.

"What's wrong?" asked Molly, worried by his behavior.

"Nothing, just..."

"Sherlock?"

"It's so unrealistic, seeing you all in here." Sherlock spat out, avoiding anyone's eyes. "I was never to meet you again, and yet..."

"What do you mean, you were not going to see us again?" repeated Molly, turning around so she could look Sherlock in the eyes. Or at least she tired, because the detective kept stubbornly studying the tea under his feet.

"I was never to come back to London, I told you..."

"So we would have met somewhere else," John pointed out. "You said Mycroft estimated your job at East for six months. He promised us to occasionally pass news from you, so sooner or later we would go to see you."

The mere mentioning of the mission was like a bucket of cold water. Sherlock stopped making holes in the floor with his eyes and looked at John.

"That was never going to happen. Mycroft is never wrong in.." he stopped, realizing what he had just said. Once again, he looked away, but it was too late. Mary was the first to understand what he meant.

"You were not to come back from this mission, weren't you?" she asked. "They were sending you on a suicide mission."

Greg, from all of them the least orientated in the whole situation, sat on the free chair, mouth wide open. John froze, and Molly just closed her eyes.

"Sherlock, tell me it's not true," she asked, barely keeping her voice from breaking. "Tell me Mary is wrong."

"She's right," replied Sherlock shortly, not daring to look at anyone. For the moment the only noises were the ones made by Sally in the living room.

"Why didn't we know?" Asked John for everybody. "You were going to have yourself killed and you didn't say a word. Why?"

"Because I didn't want to do it again to you!" Now Sherlock was shouting, pushed too far by his friend's questions. "You were to never know, it was easier that way!"

"Easier for who?" asked Mary. "Because it wasn't for you."  
"You already faked your death and lied to us once," John pointed out mercilessly. "You promised to never do such thing again. And now it turns out you were going to lie that you are alive. And I suspect your brother was going to pass us your greetings from beyond your grave?"

"You were never to find out," tried Sherlock weakly. Next to him, Molly did her best trying not to lose control. "I would have vanished from your lives slowly, not so violently... like the last time."

"But we did find out," said Mary. "You should have told us..."

"I'm close to saying that I'm glad Moriarty returned," muttered Greg in a dead voice. "If not for..."

"It is not Moriarty!" Molly cut him off. "Stop saying it's him. James Moriarty is dead, I signed his death certificate."

"As you did with his," noticed Mary, pointing at Sherlock. She wanted to lighten the mood a bit, but she got exactly the opposite reaction. Molly exploded, surprising them all.

"Are you suggesting that I helped him survive too? And I kept it secret from Sherlock so I wouldn't spoil the fun?" she growled, looking at Mary without hiding her reluctance. "How dare you suggest that!? You?"

"Molly..." Sherlock tried to interrupt, taken aback like the others.

"I didn't suggest anything like that," Mary reassured her.

"But Sherlock was going to die because of you," retorted the pathologist, no longer controlling her voice nor the tears running down her cheeks. "It's the second time," she shot.

"Molly!" exclaimed the shocked detective.

Mary looked down, not trying to defend herself. To everyone but Greg it was obvious that Sherlock had killed Magnussen to protect Mary Watson and as a consequence he was to be sent on a suicide mission. Molly just said it aloud.

The silence fell. Molly was standing next to frozen Sherlock and she was shaking, Greg was trying to understand what was going on, and John was torn. He wanted to comfort Mary somehow, but them he knew what Molly had said was true. And then, he had made his choices, just like Sherlock did... The silence was broken by Molly, who couldn't stand the tension any longer. She ran out on the corridor. Her heels echoed on the stairs.

"Inspector, what about this carpet?" called sergeant Donovan from the room. Willy-nilly, Lestrade joined her, and John came closer to Sherlock.

"Go after her."

The detective obeyed, leaving wet brown tracks of tea on the floor. He still had a feeling of general overload, and that made him careless, so he talked more, which made the whole situation even more tensed... It was like going in circles.

Molly didn't leave the house. She was standing on the landing, leaning against the wall, and she was crying silently. When Sherlock joined her, not sure if any kind of apology would work, the woman embraced him closely and kept crying on his jacket.

"Molly, please, stop that," murmured Sherlock, dismayed. He felt his eyes being suspiciously wet. No! He was to focus...

"Why didn't you trust me this time?" asked Molly, embracing him even tighter.

"To spare you all of this," repeated Sherlock, hoping she would understand. "John told me once that people protect their friends. It is all I was trying to do."

"But it works both ways, you know," said John from the upstairs. He stood in the kitchen doors and looked at the pair on the stairs. "It's not like it's only you working yourself to death, we're all involved and we are here for you as well. And Mycroft can go to hell with all his shit, he won't make you believe otherwise."

"You've changed for the better and your brother is not going to ruin that," added Molly, wiping her eyes. She glanced at the mascara traces on Sherlock's collar. "Oh, sorry."

"Never mind." Sherlock just shrugged his shoulders. He didn't even try to comment his friends' remarks about Mycroft. "Ok, back to work," he said, seeing that Molly composed herself more or less.

"Alright..."

Sherlock ran up the stairs, but instead of going into the living room, he headed one floor above to John's old room. The doctor followed him, as well as Molly, who didn't feel comfortable to stay in kitchen all alone with Mary.

"So?"

"Just like I thought," stated Sherlock, glancing around the room. "Two boxes with documents from the old cases are missing," he started explaining. "Photos of the crime scenes, prints, newspapers... I have most of it on my laptop, but it's usually easier to compare things on paper."

"Yeah." nodded John. He saw many times the mixture of notes and photos on the wall in the living room, and even if it always looked chaotic to him, he knew it helped Sherlock to sort all the information he had. "So that's what's missing?"

"Half of the box contained information about Moriarty," said Sherlock grimly. "Every article from the press, beginning with that bomb race, then the media scandal around his trial... Every single case I suspected Moriarty was involved in was in there. Sorted and described," he winced.

"So whoever has it, they just got new data about him," Molly summed up. "God, it's like all the nightmares from past are coming back."

"I agree." John shivered. "Someone got inspired..."

"And it means we can expect literally everything," finished Sherlock and he left the room with his friends.

They went into the kitchen and found an awkward situation, because Greg tried to politely find out what Molly had meant when she had accused Mary. John's wife looked like she didn't know what to say and was waiting for Sherlock's permission. Molly lost countenance when she heard the inspector's questions.

"Care to tell me what's going on?" Greg asked directly, no longer trying to be polite. "Sherlock? John?"

"Explain." Sherlock muttered to his friend. "We're alone, tell him whatever you want," he said, as Sally had gone downstairs to join the rest of the policemen.

Whether he liked or not, John was left to do the explaining, while Sherlock went to the room. He was furious. Because of this emotional thing and the inspector's stupid concern the police had already ruined everything, and even if there had been something that could lead Sherlock to any conclusions, it was already gone.

The mobile vibrated in his pocket. Sherlock removed it and glanced at the screen. Mycroft sent him a message reminding about the meeting he was due to attend.

"Ok, so what now?" asked Greg a moment later, coming in. He seemed a bit dumped in the face by all the things he had just heard from John. Unlike Molly, the inspector didn't know who had shot Sherlock or why exactly the detective had killed Magnussen.

"I have to meet Mycroft," winced Sherlock. "See what he got, what they... decided."

"I think we're going home," decided John, glancing at his wife. Although Mary didn't say a word, she looked tired. "Molly?"

"I'm going with Sherlock," she stated firmly. "Mycroft will have to deal with it."

"I don't think he'll be pleased, but I don't mind," said Sherlock. He missed the look John and Molly shared; a silence agreement that it was better to keep together today, and best not to leave a vulnerable Sherlock alone with his brother, who could have a bad influence on him.

"Take some clothes for change," added Molly unexpectedly, surprising Sherlock. "I don't want to come back here today."

"Why would I need... Oh, I see, you want me to sleep at your place," realized Sherlock. "Why?"

"Because I'm afraid to be alone today," admitted Molly honestly. "And I don't want you to be alone," she added quietly.

"Then why don't you stay here with me?" asked Sherlock. "You can take my bed, I don't think I will be using it tonight."

"And leave you with the couch and that bloody carpet?" replied Molly. "Brrr, no way. Merely thinking about sleeping here tonight gives me shivers."

"The police took the carpet, and the blood on the floor is almost invisible," Sherlock pointed out. "You have no reasons to..."

"Sherlock, please."

"Alright." The detective gave up. "Mycroft's people will clean that mess and check the flat, I will come back tomorrow. And I have no clothes here."

"So what, shall we go?" asked Molly. "Though you know, I should probably return to work, I just left without a single word..."

"I will be passing Barts, I will explain what happened," offered Lestrade. "I think that your boss had a meeting with Mycroft Holmes once and that he was informed about some... inaccuracies in the papers."

Molly nodded. After Sherlock came back, there were people at Barts who could bind everything together and suspected Molly had a part in it, considering her... relations with the detective. Mycroft Holmes made sure then, that her boss learned about the fake death certificate Molly Hooper had prepared on the behalf of the secret service, to protect the country from terrorists. The pathologist didn't know the details of that conversation, but that was what she had come to after a phone call from her boss right after Mycroft had left him. Greg guessed that part correctly and he was right to use it now.

"Greg, let me know if you come up to anything."

They all went downstairs, where John stepped back to Mrs. Hudson's. Ha came back a moment later, handing Molly a spare keys, like he said, just in case.


End file.
